You and Me and Us

by Alison Hammer

  When he finished telling me the story that night, I perched on the edge of his lap and kissed him. His tears mixed with mine and he told me that nothing in the world would keep him from experiencing every single moment of this miracle that had been given to us. The good ones, and the less than good ones.

  He asked me if I would mind if he gave our baby the silver rattle I already knew was hidden in the bottom of his sock drawer. I nodded and kissed him, trying to take away what was left of his pain.

  But now Tommy’s past was rearing her beautiful head and I had to do something to protect my family.

  “She’s going to be in Destin,” I tell him. “All summer—shooting a stupid series for Netflix. She’s playing a mom.” I scoff at the irony.

  “Is that all?” Tommy asks. “You had me worried for a second.”

  I stand and turn around, looking down at him with a nonplussed look on his face. “Is that all? Isn’t that enough? Your movie-star ex-wife is going to be in Destin. All summer.”

  “She’s more of a TV star than a movie star,” Tommy says with a smile that fades as soon as he sees my reaction. He reaches for my hand but I pull it away, resting it firmly on my hip instead. “Babe, Monica is part of my past, and that’s it. She could be in Beverly Hills or sitting in our living room and it’s all the same to me.”

  “That’s exactly the point,” I tell him. He looks confused, so I continue. “I don’t want her anywhere near our living room, or you, or our daughter.”

  “Okay,” Tommy says.

  “What do you mean, okay?” I yell, shaking my hands in frustration.

  “I mean okay-okay. We’ll keep her out of our living room.”

  I drop my hands to my sides, not sure what to do now that he’s agreed so easily. “And away from CeCe.”

  “Away from me and from CeCe.” Tommy reaches for me, and I let him pull me back down on the couch beside him.

  “I’m not crazy,” I tell him, which I’m sure doesn’t help my case.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” Tommy says, nuzzling my neck. “Because I’m crazy about you. Are you sure you didn’t lie about wanting to marry me?”

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  “Why not?” he asks, kissing the curve of my neck.

  “For the same reasons I’ve told you why not for the last fifteen years.”

  A marriage license didn’t stop Tommy’s dad from running out on his mom, but somehow Tommy’s response to growing up in a dysfunctional home was the exact opposite of mine. Then again, my dad stayed. If he had left—or better yet, if my mom had left him—then maybe I wouldn’t have such a strong bias against the institution.

  “But things are different now,” Tommy says, as if he has to remind me that our happiness has an expiration date.

  His mouth finds mine, but only for a moment before pulling away to continue his case. “If we aren’t married, you may not be able to come see me at the hospital.”

  “You said you didn’t want to go to the hospital.”

  “If we’re married, you can inherit my estate without being taxed.”

  “That might be your most romantic proposal yet, Tommy Whistler.”

  He sighs in defeat and leans back against the couch. I should probably just say yes, but he’s the one who told me to stay real. And it wouldn’t be real if I suddenly changed my mind after all these years of saying no.

  He knows better than anyone else how deep my resentment goes. And I know this is about us now, not my parents, but it’s hard to let go of a belief you’ve held on to for most of your life. I can’t remember a time I didn’t believe blue was the best color, broccoli was the worst vegetable, and marriage was a joke.

  How could I respect an institution that my parents so blatantly disrespected? Maybe if I didn’t know my dad cheated, that my mom knew and did nothing. Keeping up appearances was more important to them than the actual relationship. And if that was what marriage was about, I’d decided, I didn’t want anything to do with it.

  I wanted what Tommy and I have. A relationship that isn’t defined by anything but our love for each other, that pays no attention to appearances. We’ve stayed together because we’d be lost without each other, because we wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else or with anyone else—not because we’re bound by a stupid piece of parchment paper.

  If we change that now, it would be like I’m doing it because he’s sick, not because we want to spend the rest of our lives together. The rest of his life.

  “How about we skip the wedding and go straight to the honeymoon?” Tommy asks, the sparkle back in his eyes. “We’ve got the house to ourselves tonight, and there are still a few rooms we haven’t christened yet.”

  “I’m Jewish,” I remind him.

  “There are a few rooms we haven’t Jewished yet,” he tries again.

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “Let’s make it a thing.” His lips are back on my neck and I tilt my head, encouraging him to keep going.

  “I thought those pills were supposed to decrease your libido?”

  “They’re supposed to,” he says, working his way to my lips. I pull away from his kiss. As much as I want to pretend that everything is okay, it’s not. “Maybe they’re not working?”

  Tommy brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “The pills aren’t going to fix me. If they’re making me feel better, they’re doing their job.” He pulls me into his arms and starts kissing the other side of my neck. “You make me feel better. You’re my medicine.”

  He moves from the nape of my neck back to my lips and I’m a hopeless case. “What room should we Jewish first?” I ask.

  His lips curve into a smile, and for one brief moment, I’m just a woman in the arms of the man she loves. Until the next time life reminds us otherwise.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alexis

  The music coming from CeCe’s room is loud enough that I can almost make out the lyrics from behind my own closed door across the hall. I wonder if this would be any easier if we could be sad together instead of alone.

  It’s been like this all week. Her postperformance glow faded as soon as we broke the news about our change of summer plans. Even the flowers we’d given her had wilted, like they, too, had caught her sorrow.

  I knock softly at first, afraid to bother her.

  I’m not sure when this power shift between us happened, but I don’t like it one bit. I’m not the enemy here; cancer is. And she can resent me all she wants for working hard, but one day, she’ll appreciate the fact that I was providing a good example for her. Not to mention a roof over her head.

  I knock a little louder. Still no answer. I lift my hand, prepared to knock again, when she opens the door. I start to say something but stop at the sight of her looking so small and helpless, swimming in one of her dad’s old T-shirts. Behind her, I notice that her suitcase is sitting empty on the floor; she doesn’t want to go tomorrow, either.

  “What?” CeCe glares at me. The sudden movement causes her thick black glasses to slip down her nose. When she lifts her hand to push them back up, I notice the purple polish has almost chipped off her nails, the edges ragged where she’s apparently started biting them again.

  I smile in spite of myself, happy to have one problem I can actually solve.

  CECE TAKES THE salon chair next to mine and hands a bottle of polish to the manicurist. I don’t have to look to know that it’s a shade of purple.

  It hadn’t been as hard as I thought to convince her that a little pampering would do us both some good. And I’m sure she was as grateful as I was to have a reason to get out of the house.

  “Daughter?” the manicurist asks, nodding toward CeCe.

  I nod and smile in response, and again, I don’t have to look to know CeCe is scowling. I used to take offense at how much she hated the fact that we look so much alike, but Tommy was almost able to convince me that it wasn’t so much about our looks as it was wanting to establish her own identity, or some other shrink
talk.

  I glance over at CeCe, admiring her posture. I square my shoulders and sit up a little straighter myself. She looks over and gives me a small smile, an unexpected gift I wish I could tuck in my pocket to save for later.

  Afraid to spoil the moment, I rack my brain for a safe topic. School is over and anything acting-related will come back around to the fact that she had to drop out of theater camp. I have a feeling she and Sofia had a falling-out, and I don’t think either of us is ready to talk about whatever is going on between her and Liam. I’m about to make a comment about the weather when her manicurist asks her a question about her favorite subject in school.

  There’s something carefree and easy about the way CeCe answers the woman’s question. I close my eyes and relax, half listening to their friendly banter. CeCe is charming, something I’d like to think she got from me, and thoughtful in the questions she asks in return, something I know she got from Tommy.

  “Right, Mom?” CeCe asks.

  I open my eyes, surprised to see the manicurist is applying the last layer of my OPI Cajun Shrimp nail polish.

  “What’s that?” I ask, not sure how long I’d zoned out.

  “Grandma and Grandpa are in Thailand?”

  I nod and CeCe goes back to their conversation, something about street food and curry. Since my dad retired last fall, he and my mom have been traveling the world, adding stamps to their passports as if they were frequent-diners cards. Based on the pictures they post on Facebook, it looks like they’re enjoying their golden years together—but I know they barely smile at, much less talk to, each other when the camera isn’t out and no one else is around. They’re both just using each other to get what they want, or what they want other people to think they have.

  They were in Cambodia when I finally got up the nerve to tell them what was going on with Tommy. I used the thirteen-hour time difference as an excuse, but the truth is, I didn’t want to have to explain that Tommy had given up. I knew they would respond the way they responded to almost everything, throwing money at the problem. Which they did.

  My dad offered to pay whatever it took, hire the best doctor, find the best specialist; they would fly us to the moon if that’s what they needed to do to make sure I could keep my family of three intact.

  In the end, I thanked them and said I would let them know if there was anything they could do, but there wasn’t.

  “Ten minutes over here,” the manicurist says as she pulls out a chair at the nail drying station. I take a seat and close my eyes as she steps behind me for the complimentary shoulder massage.

  “A lot of tension,” she says as she digs her palm into my right shoulder.

  “You have no idea,” I tell her. It hurts in a good way and I drop my head, letting the tension leave my body. I consider asking her to keep going for an extra tip when CeCe pulls out the chair beside me.

  “How do they look?” I ask.

  She holds up her predictably purple nails, a soft shade somewhere in the lavender family.

  “Beautiful.” My compliment brings a quick smile to CeCe’s face. “Perfect beach-nails for Destin.”

  Her face falls and I curse myself for bringing up one of the very things we’re here to forget. I wish I could tell her that I don’t want to go, either, but I know that won’t help anything.

  Since we’re already on the topic, I figure it can’t hurt to keep talking about it. Maybe it will even help, since avoiding the subject won’t change the fact that we’re leaving first thing in the morning.

  “Have you started packing yet?” I ask, even though I know she hasn’t.

  CeCe shakes her head.

  “I can help you when we get home,” I offer.

  “I’m not a baby,” she snaps. I sit back abruptly, wishing I could rewind the clock and never bring up the D-word. It’s just as bad as the C-word.

  “I’m just trying to help,” I say, fully aware that I’m doing anything but.

  “If you really want to help,” she says, “you can convince Dad we should stay here this summer.”

  “You used to love spending summers in Destin,” I remind her.

  “I was a baby then,” CeCe says, her tone getting snarkier with each syllable. “How I spend my summers matters now that I’m in high school. Don’t you want me to get into a good college?”

  How anyone spends the summer between freshman and sophomore year is about as important to colleges as the grade they get in gym class. But I know better than to tell her that—especially in a public place where I’d like to be able to show my face again.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” I say, lowering my voice.

  “You don’t get it,” CeCe says, not bothering to be quiet. I can feel the eyes of everyone in the salon staring, ears perked, listening to what should be a private conversation. “You don’t understand how important acting is to me.”

  “Is it more important than your dad?”

  CeCe leans as far away from me as she can get without taking her hands out from under the dryer. “Of course not,” she hisses.

  “Theater camp will be here next year,” I tell her. And before I can stop myself, I add, “Your father won’t be.”

  I watch my daughter’s eyes, which look like my eyes, get wide and shiny behind her glasses. She opens her mouth but closes it without saying anything, which is exactly what I should have done.

  “I’m sorry.” I pull my hands from under the dryer and reach out to touch her arm, but she is out of her chair before I can stop her. The chime on the front door rings loud, breaking the awkward silence left in her wake.

  I quickly pay at the front desk, leaving a larger tip than necessary, before I follow CeCe outside. So much for mother-daughter bonding.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CeCe

  Four hours into the drive, I have to pee so badly my bladder feels like it might explode. It wasn’t exactly a good idea to drink a giant bottle of water before we left, and it doesn’t help that the trip is taking even longer than normal since Mom is the one driving.

  I pull my headphones off my ears, which are a little sore. I probably shouldn’t have been listening to my music that loud, but I just couldn’t handle hearing Mom, trying to act like everything is happy and normal.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.

  “Can you wait till the next rest stop?” Mom asks. It’s a stupid question, because really, what are my options? Squatting on the side of the road?

  “Obviously,” I say, realizing too late that I accidentally broke the silent treatment. Until now, I haven’t spoken a single word to her since we left the salon yesterday. I look down at my imperfect pinky nail, where the polish smeared since I didn’t leave it under the dryer long enough. Also her fault.

  “Next rest stop, twelve miles,” Dad reads off a sign. “Think you can hold it?”

  “I’ll be fine—I’m not a little girl.”

  “You’ll always be my little girl,” Dad says, slipping his hand behind the front seat to grab my knee. I raise my feet so he can’t reach.

  He and Mom smile at each other in that dopey way parents do, like they’re in on some big secret the rest of the world doesn’t know about.

  “Eyes on the road,” I remind Mom.

  She looks back at me before turning her attention where it belongs. “Got it,” she says. “And my hands are at ten and two in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t,” I say, mostly to myself. I don’t think she heard me anyway, because “Happy Together,” our family song, starts playing and she can’t not sing along.

  “Imagine me and you,” she sings.

  Dad turns up the volume and answers back with the next line. If we have to have a family song, would it be too much to ask for one that came from this century?

  Usually, I’d chime in at the chorus, but I keep my mouth shut in silent protest.

  Dad either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he just keeps going, singing his modified version of the lyric
s about the “girls” he loves, me and Mom.

  He reaches behind him again and I bring my knees back in grabbing distance so he knows he’s not the one I’m mad at. He turns back and smiles at me, and he looks so happy that I’m considering joining in at the next chorus to sing about how happy we are together, but then he starts coughing.

  “Dad?” I ask at the same time Mom says, “Tommy?”

  There’s more coughing. It’s loud and it sounds like it hurts, and it’s the worst noise I’ve ever heard. It makes my own chest ache. He keeps coughing and then he’s wheezing and I’m worried he isn’t able to breathe. What if he stops breathing?

  I look over at Mom, who’s looking at Dad and not at the road ahead, where cars are slowing down in front of us.

  “Mom, stop!”

  She looks up and hits the brakes just in time. Her arm flies across to the passenger seat as if she could protect Dad. He leans into her arm and stays slumped forward.

  “Daddy?”

  The coughing fit is over, but he’s breathing slow and low. There’s a raspy rattle in his breaths. “I’m okay,” he says.

  My eyes meet Mom’s in the rearview mirror. Neither of us says anything, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing: that we’re not ready to lose him.

  “You can go now,” Dad says.

  “What?” Mom’s voice is shaky and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

  “Go,” he says, louder this time. He sounds angry, and I hope it’s not at me.

  Mom stares at him a moment longer, then looks back at the highway, where all the other cars are moving again. Someone behind us honks, and Mom hits the gas.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Alexis

  Shit,” I say as we zoom past the exit where I was supposed to get off. “Sorry.” I bring my eyes up to the rearview mirror, hoping to find CeCe looking back at me. There was a moment when Tommy was coughing that it seemed like she knew we were going to need each other to get through this.

  “What?” she asks with snark in her voice, as if she forgot that just moments ago she had to go to the bathroom so badly that she broke her resolve not to talk to me.